


inside this world, there is another.

by vantas



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Developing Relationship, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 01:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13847421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/vantas
Summary: Suddenly stuck thousands of light-years away from everyone he's ever known, Keith must choose between his duty to the Blade of Marmora and his desire to discover the other half of his lineage. (Or: In which a Blade of Marmora raised Keith finds himself stranded on an uninhabited planet alongside Takashi Shirogane, the first and only human being he's ever met.)





	inside this world, there is another.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a very, very, _very_ late pinch hit for [desastrista](http://desastrista.tumblr.com/), as part of the [Sheith Secret Santa exchange](https://sheithsecretsanta.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr! Words cannot express how sorry I am for the wait, but nonetheless, I hope you're able to enjoy it. 
> 
> As per usual, a special shoutout to [ryoji](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ryoji/pseuds/ryoji) for putting up with my unintelligeable shrieking for several weeks. And, also, for this:
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> It'll make sense when y'all see it. 

**i — In retrospect, the last twenty vargas of Keith's life could have gone way better.**  

He remembers the mission, of course.  He remembers setting off with Vorvak and Kerdet, Kolivan's sharp stare burning into the back of his head as he was reminded once again that stealth was their priority.  They had been deployed to retrieve information from a recently decommissioned fueling station, which was nothing out of the ordinary, but the fact that the place had been practically empty _was_.  It's after this point that Keith's memories become hazy and evanescent, but he remembers enough to know that splitting up had been a bad idea.  He hadn't even gotten the chance to finish investigating the lower levels, weaving through eerily identical corridors and keeping an eye out for company, when Vorvak had started shouting for an immediate extraction over their communications system.

They hadn't been as alone as they had thought.

Keith had been too late to reach their rendezvous point before the whole place went up in flames.

He recalls the vague impression of fire licking at his skin, his mask failing to filter out the smoke as his ears continued ringing from the explosion that nearly ripped the station in half.  Vorvak and Kerdet were long gone by now, and no matter how many times he tried to contact them over his suit's comms, they weren't coming back.  That left him stumbling his way through the station, towards the only functional ship he could find, and collapsing on the pilot's seat of a galran fighter that had obviously been through one fight too many. The world around him becomes hazier and hazier by the tick, sweat running down his skin in rivulets as he set up the autopilot function, punched in the first set of coordinates that came to mind and then promptly blacked out.

The next thing he knows, he's somewhere in the Drolon system. That much he can tell from the numbers staring back at him on the flickering display.  The ship's emergency lights glow a dim violet hue all around him as he assesses the damage, both on himself and on the ship.  His body feels sluggish and bruised, but he's otherwise relatively unscated.  He counts this fact as a blessing.

It's just about the only thing he can actually _call_ a blessing, however.

There's no response from any of the switches, levels and buttons on the ship's controls.  The holographic displays flicker in and out of existence — and then they shut down all together when Keith scoots down to pry the lid off circuitry box.  Something rattles loose, and Keith can hear it bounce off the metal floor right before it rolls way out of his reach.

The ship's exterior isn't in a better state, though that isn't saying much considering it already looked like utter garbage.  Parts of the hull are now concave, the planet's rocky, jungle-like terrain nearly ripping the shielding to shreds.  Keith is not an engineer by any means, but he knows there's no way the fighter is going to take to the skies again.  At best, it'll be a place to sleep and take care of his own injuries until he figures something out.

( _If_ he figures something out.)

No one answers his calls when he tries his suit's communication system.  Not even when he searches for higher ground, remaining wary of the planet's wildlife.

This, in itself, is not surprising.

Blades who fail to return from their mission are as good as dead.

He knows this from experience.

* * *

**ii — He makes a point of keeping track of time.**

Sharp lines litter the walls of the fighter's interior, each one carefully carved in with his ( _mother's_ ) blade.  While he can do little to keep track of how many vargas are in a single quintant, the planet's rotations seem to be average enough that that it doesn't feel like he has to wait an abnormally long amount of time before the moon dips below the horizon and the sun rises to replace it.  For each time this repeats, he adds a new marking to the wall.

The morning and early evening are spent foraging.  He can only carry so much on his waistpack, and the lack of food and water becomes painfully apparent as time crawls by.  He can almost hear his old instructor's voice droning on about poisonous flora and fauna that would make even the strongest of men ill, but it's not like he can pull up the Blade's database when stranded galaxies away from everyone he's ever known.   The possibility of his unique biology reacting to the food he can find on this planet is enough to keep him from falling asleep directly after a meal

— but there's little to be done about that.   The only other alternative is to starve, and that is hardly a choice at all.

Nighttime is a little trickier.  The low levels of visibility are enough that he refrains from wandering too far away from his damaged ship.   Mostly, he stays inside to recuperate his energies while the wildlife grows restless, a cacophony of guttural growls and high pitched wails surrounding the fighter while Keith attempts to fix the control panel.  The keyword here is _attempts_ because he sure as hell doesn't know what he's doing, and all the little wires and sparkly little pieces look alarmingly similar to him.  For all he knows, he could be making the damage worse — but he has nothing to lose if he is, and everything to gain if he were able to get the ship's communication systems back online.

It's during a night like this, when he's crammed himself in the little cranny between the pilot's chair and the circuitry panel, that it happens.

He's close to giving up at the time.  His back is sore and his fingers are numb from trying to work with the ship's fine circuitry, and he doesn't know if this is any better than giving into ennui.  Even so — his current position makes it so he's able to feel the subtle rumbling of the ground.  He tenses up immediately, body stilling as he tries to gauge whether it's something he should be worried about or not.

And then he hears it.

Something has broken through the planet's atmosphere.

He's grabbing his blade and waistpack before he can even really think about it, climbing out the ship and making his way to the top of the vessel.  All around him, the creatures native to this planet seem to be doing their best to run away, skittering past him while paying his existence no heed.  Keith understands it when he spots the streak of bright, purple light cutting through the night sky, close enough to his current location that he barely has enough time to brace himself before it crashes into the planet's surface.  The force of the impact is enough to send shockwaves through the area adjacent to it, and for once, Keith is glad no one is around to see him nearly fall flat on his badonkadonk.

Five ticks later, he's sliding down the pod's hull and making his way to the site of the crash.

* * *

**iii — What he finds is not what he expected.**

( _His mother used to speak to him of the legend of Voltron._

_He remembers the sensation of her fingers combing through his hair, the repetitive motions more than enough to send him into a sleep addled trance.  Her voice was gentle and soft at times like this, barely above a whisper as she regaled him with tales of the universe's legendary defender.  "Voltron," she would tell him, when the lights in their room were low and she had no more duties to tend to for the time being. "It is the key to ending the Empire's reign."_

_"Thought Voltron was fake," he remembers yawning in return, reaching up with his pale, chubby hand to rub at his eyes.  It used to always weird him out — the knowledge that he was so different from everyone else he knew.  He used to ask his mother about the other half of his heritage at every chance he got, but after being stonewalled one time too many, he chose to live with the enigma.  His mother would never say, and neither would Kolivan._

_He wonders if it's because his conception was considered a shameful event.  Wonders if it's because, judging by his own height and appearance, his father's species is not suited to partake in a seemingly eternal war. Or, maybe, if it's simply because children do not belong among the Blade of Marmora._

_Whatever the reason, no one seemed to be willing to let him in on the secret._

_"Oh," his mother huffed out, pushing a stray strand of dark hair away from Keith's face and behind his rounded ears. There's something odd in her tone, like there's some vital piece of information Keith is missing, and he's far too sleepy to think to question what.  "I'm sure some of the tales are fake, but not all of them. Voltron is real, Keith, and it will return to us soon."_

_She sounded so sure of herself.  So certain.  It should register as strange, but in the end — he accepts it as a fact._

_And even though he falls asleep shortly after, he never forgets the sensation of comfortably cool water running down his skin in his dreams.  The rushing of a river.  The impression of something all-knowing and ancient laying its eyes at him, appraising him and finding him worthy._ )

When Keith arrives at the crash site, he finds a lion.

Not the altean beast of lore, no.  Rather, a large, ridiculously humongous machine _shaped_ like one.

There is something regal about the sight.  Yellow tipped ears crown the machine's head. Red and blue wings adorn its back, serving to accentuate the black and white colors of its hull. Though the machine is laying on its side, appendages splayed over its torso, Keith can still make out enough of the details to spot the symbol emblazoned on its chest.

_Voltron._

He's about to approach the machine, his left hand lingering over the hilt of his blade, when a hatch on the lion's head suddenly pops open.  Keith stops in his tracks, watching as a single armor-clad arm darts out, its owner following shortly thereafter.   _It's a person_ , Keith realizes, dressed from head to toe in a white and black suit that almost seems to match the lion's exteriors.  They clutch their left arm almost immediately after crawling out, wobbling precariously as they attempt to find their footing, and then—

Keith is moving before he even realizes what's happening, darting forward to catch this person before they can hit the ground.

They're heavier than he expected, his limbs protesting as he struggles to keep _both_ of them from toppling over.  Gently, carefully, as if dealing with precious cargo, he adjusts their position so they're both kneeling on the floor.  The person is a dead weight against him, groaning weakly as the movement aggravates their injuries.  Keith would feel slightly more apologetic, if not for the fact that the alternative was allowing them to break their neck via falling from a giant, robotic lion.

Pulling away ever-so-slightly to assess the damage, Keith's mouth begins to form words.

"Hey, are you—"

He doesn't really get to finish that sentence.

Not when the face that stares back at him is eerily similar to his own, the anatomy of their species one that Keith has only seen when looking in the mirror.

The man blinks blearily at him, his gaze unfocused as blood sluggishly makes its way down his forehead, cheek and chin.  His lips part, plump and pink and far more entrancing than they have any right to be, considering the situation.  For a moment, Keith believes the man is going to say nothing.  Believes that he's too far gone, or that Keith is the only one shocked by finding someone so similar to him all the way out here.  This belief is seemingly backed up by the fact that the man keeps closing and opening his mouth, akin to a fish that has been taken out of water.

But, then, he speaks—

"You're... human."

—And promptly proceeds to pass out in Keith's arms.

* * *

**iv — The man's arm is, unsurprisingly, broken.**

Once Keith gets over his initial shock, it's not too hard to notice the way the man's elbow seems to be jutting forward, forearm twisted in ways that (from previous experience) Keith knows to be excruciatingly painful.  In that moment, he's painfully aware of the fact that he's unprepared and unequipped to deal with any kind of injury — much less one that involves broken bones.  Theoretically, he supposes he could pop the bones back into place and build a makeshift sling out of whatever materials he has at hand.  He's not terribly attached to his suit, anyway. He has no qualms about ripping strips out of the hood for this purpose. It's not ideal, but it's a whole lot better than nothing.

Finding suitable shelter, however, is completely other matter.

The galra fighter is barely big enough to accommodate _Keith_ , despite the fact he's ridiculously tiny next to the rest of the Blade of Marmora.  As much as it sucks to admit it, there's no way for him to squeeze the pilot into the fighter's cockpit _and_ work on patching up his injuries at the same time.

(Not without practically sitting on the other man's lap, anyway.

But that isn't really an option.)

He feels it as he silently debates his next move.

A phantom sensation against his skin.  Something ethereal and indescribable, raising goosebumps across his flesh and causing his body to shudder.  He feels it settling against the notches of his spine, warm and not entirely unwelcome for reasons Keith cannot even begin to fathom.  When he sucks in a breath, forcing himself to look away from the man's face in order to examine his surroundings, he swears he sees a glimmer of light reflecting against the lion's eyes.

The hatch is still open.

He doesn't know how he manages it.  The pilot isn't exactly _light_ , after all. But, somehow, Keith succeeds in hauling both himself and the unconscious man over the lion's head.  Finding purchase on the smooth, metal surface is the easiest part.  Trying to safely deposit his newfound companion without actually dropping him into the cockpit is not.  His heart is hammering against his ribcage by the time they're properly inside, the hatch now closed to keep any unwelcome visitors out.

He tells himself that physical exertion is the only reason he finds himself breathless as he takes care of the man's injuries.

None of the injuries are fatal, as far as Keith can tell.  The wound on the pilot's head appears gorier than it actually is, and Keith has no trouble cleaning it up using the scarce supplies in his waistpack and strips of cloth from his suit.  The arm injury, on the other hand, _is_ bad — and while he's pretty sure it won't be permanently crippling, he doesn't think it's going to heal up as quickly as either of them would want.  Tending to it is a little trickier than taking care of the man's head injury, but once he finds a way to remove the armor on the man's torso, it gets a whole lot easier.

It's only after he's done tending to the man's injuries, that he indulges in behavior he can't actually justify.  He runs the tip of his finger against the curve of the man's ear, his breath trapped in his lungs as he proceeds to trace the outline of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the shape of his nose.  All the features that are painfully similar to Keith's own, and yet dissimilar enough that he feels the urge to punch himself in the face for daring to hope.

(But the man had called him a name.

He had called him a _human_.)

He's keenly aware that Kolivan would reprimand him if he knew  — but Kolivan doesn't know, and Keith doesn't care.  He's all alone in the middle of nowhere, with only a nameless man and the local wildlife for company.  He's far past the point of making good decisions, something that's only exacerbated by the fact that the other half of his heritage is so tantalizingly close.

So he settles the man into the pilot's chair, closes his eyes, and tries to prepare himself for when the man eventually regains consciousness.

It doesn't actually work.

* * *

**v — The man wakes up nearly three vargas later.**

He does not wake peacefully.

Keith catches the fist aimed at him as the pilot startles awake, alarmed and disorientated and with a penchant for lashing out at the first thing he perceives as a threat.  Considering the fact that he crash landed on an alien planet, Keith can hardly blame him.  But it does make things troublesome when he has to talk the man down, coaxing him into relaxation before they can have an actual conversation.

"It's okay," he finds himself saying, meeting the man's eyes and shifting his tone into something he hopes is comforting.  "I won't hurt you.  You're among allies, Paladin."

He watches the steady rise and fall of the man's chest.  The way his larynx bobs as his eyes rake over Keith from top to bottom.  It's a hauntingly familiar feeling; being _appraised_ always is, for some reason.  But this time, he doesn't know what the man is looking for.  He doesn't know if this encounter is as monumental for him as it is for Keith, and that leaves him with his heart stuck in his throat while he forces his expression to remain neutral.

"You're..." the man begins, at first slowly slowly, then mistrustfully.   "Who are you? How did you get inside the _Black Lion_?"

 _Well_. He's chatty, and that's as good a sign as anything that he isn't actually dying from his injuries.  Or, at least, Keith _hopes_ that's what his outburst means.  There's a tinge of hysteria to his tone; fear and panic all wrapped up in one neat package as he questions how Keith got inside his ship.  Considering the circumstances, though, he can't really be blamed for this.

"My name is Keith," he answers simply enough, hoping that by remaining calm he can soothe his companion's worries.  "And you left the hatch open.  It's not that hard to— you know, climb?"

The paladin's expression shifts, his eyes narrowing in a way that makes Keith want to squirm.  He doesn't know what to think of it, but after a moment, it seems like his answer is good enough for the other man. "... Where are we?"

"I don't know," he replies, and the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. "Some planet on the Drolon system? Mostly uninhabited.  No sapient life besides us. That's about all I can tell you."

That answer somehow manages to be more satisfactory than the last, but it doesn't stop the paladin from looking at Keith like he's trying to decide on something.  After a beat, the man huffs out a breath, running his right hand over the makeshift sling holding his injured arm in place.  "You patched me up?"

Keith shrugs, averting his gaze to stare at his own hands like they're the most interesting thing in the room.  "Like I said before.  You're among allies, Paladin," he says, only a few decibels above a mumble.  "And... besides. You're the first person I've seen in a while.  I thought I was gonna go crazy."

The admission leaves him feeling raw and filled with regret the moment it leaves his lips.  Confiding in a stranger, exposing his intentions to someone whose name he doesn't even know — it's not how Keith _works_.

(And yet, he finds himself wanting to blurt out all his troubles to this stranger.  He wants to peel back the layers of his own life, wishing to see where the similarities stack up.  He wants to find the string that connects him to his father's kin; to fill in that great unknown that has left him feeling confused and bereft for all of his life.)

The paladin shifts, his mouth set into a fine line by the time Keith manages to look at his expression once again.  When he speaks, there's something in his tone that Keith doesn't really know how to interpret.  "... How did you get here? Have the galra invaded Earth?"

There's a beat.

Keith furrows his brows, running his tongue over his incisors.  "You want to know," he begins, enunciating each word carefully as if to make sure he heard the man correctly. "If the galra have invaded the... soil?"

The effect is immediate.  His newfound companion's expression shifts into one of disbelief, lips parting as he silently sized him up all over again.  "That," he responds, stumbling through his words after a momentary pause. "That didn't translate well, did it? It's— The planet. _Our_ planet. Earth?"

But even when he says it like that, Keith still can't make heads or tails of what planet he's referring to. All it really does is increase his confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

 _That_ gets his companion to furrow his brows, skin visibly stretching where the strips of cloth have been wrapped around his head.  "... Did you not come from Earth?"

Keith shakes his head, uncertain of how to parse this new information.  This new _name_.  Earth, home to the _humans_.  "No. I didn't come from _any_ planet," he responds, and it's the truth.  As far as he knows, he was born and raised among the Blade of Marmora, moving from base to base alongside his mother — and later Kolivan, after she was declared missing in action. "Earth.  That's the planet you came from?"

"... Yes. It is," the pilot replies, nodding.  "But aren't you human?"

"I don't know," Keith finds himself saying for what seems to be the nth time. "But I _know_ that I'm galra. Half-galra.  Do I really look human to you?"

The man pauses. Stares at Keith's hands with their five fingers, his ignominiously short stature, the discrepancy between the color of his flesh and what is expected from even those with the most diluted galran blood running through their veins — and then he meets Keith's eyes.

"You do."

And if the man is put off by his appearance, he doesn't show it.

* * *

**vi — His name, as it turns out, is Shiro.**

_Shiro,_  which also happens to be short for something that Keith tries to pronounce for all of two (2) doboshes before giving up.  The quiet chuckles that take over his ally makes the experience worth it, however, even if Keith is left mortified over his inability to produce anything but harsh, clipped syllables where there should be soft, almost melodic sounds.

( _"It's the language barrier,"_ Shiro had said, right before Keith had pointed out there _is_ no barrier between the two of them.

From the look he had received in return, he can't help but to feel that wasn't what his companion was aiming for.)

The paladin fills him in on the series of events that had brought him to this planet.

A battle against Zarkon, supposedly.  A captured princess, Paladin of the Blue Lion.  A ragtag team of _humans_ , piloting the remaining lions of Voltron straight into central command to rescue their abducted teammate.  He spares no amount of detail in blaming himself for the incident that led up to this, pointing out his failings as a leader up until Keith lays a hand on his right shoulder and shakes his head.  After that, the retelling becomes short and methodical.  They had managed to rescue the princess, opening a wormhole to escape Zarkon's clutches — but their so-called victory did not come without a price.  The Black Lion had been compromised, supposedly, and Shiro quickly found himself getting blasted out of the wormhole and subsequently separated from his teammates.

He very pointedly does not elaborate on the source of his injuries, nor does he explain the way his tone shifts almost imperceptibly as he says his ship had been _compromised_.

Keith does not question this.

Instead, he tells him what he can about his own situation.  Not enough to spill _all_ of the blade's secrets (because, regardless of what Kolivan may believe, Keith isn't quite so reckless), but enough to grant Shiro the knowledge that Voltron isn't the only one who has risen up against Zarkon's regime.

It's not until the sun begins to creep its way over the horizon that the paladin feels ready to attempt to power up his lion.

Anticipation settles into Keith's gut, goosebumps rising over his skin once again for reasons he can't quite comprehend.  He watches as Shiro adjusts his position on the pilot's chair, taking a deep breath before he settles his uninjured hand over one of the controls.  The Black Lion is a sophisticated piece of work.  Keith feels awestruck just standing inside of it, leaning against Shiro's chair with one hand gripping the backrest, but it's nothing compared to how _amazing_ it is to watch the displays come to life.

Rows upon rows of text and graphics light up before them as the cockpit is submerged in glowing, majestic purple hues.  It should remind Keith of the Empire, he supposes, but for some reason — it feels different.  It feels clean of Zarkon's influence.  It feels like it unanimously belongs to Shiro, like Galra Empire never claimed the color as their own and it was always meant to represent the Black Paladin of Voltron.

Keith doesn't realize how close he is to Shiro until the other man speaks, snapping him out of his reverie.  His voice is practically next to his ear, and it's not as startling as it should be.  "Boosters are still nonoperational," Shiro says, the corners of his lips tugged downward as he scans the holographic display.  The lion _shifts_ when Shiro then proceeds to push at the control in his hand, but not enough for it to be significant.  It's more akin to a twitch despite the fact that, according to the information in front of them, the lion should be able to move even if it can't _fly_.

Dragging in a breath, Keith very carefully avoids asking Shiro if this is due to his arm — or something else entirely.  "What about the comms system?" he asks, "Even if we can't fly out of this place, we might still be able to hail your friends for help.

Shiro hums, and in a few, swift movements, they find themselves fiddling with the lion's communications system.

"Attention, Voltron," Shiro speaks, slowly and clearly.  "This is Shiro. Does anyone copy me?"

To the surprise of absolutely no one and the utter disappointment of _everyone_ , it doesn't work.

This seems to be a running pattern in Keith's life, nowadays.

* * *

**vii — Three quintants come and go.**

They manage to fall into a relatively easy pattern with each other, collaborating like a well-oiled machine instead of two gently tenderized, hopelessly lost rebels.  Keith hunts for food.  Shiro attempts to get his lion back in working order — to no avail.  Together, they mutually tend to each other as they figure out how to get themselves out of this mess.  Keith's initial fascination doesn't fade, however.  If anything, it gets _stronger_.  Every new thing he learns about mankind is a new treasure he regards dearly.  Every new thing he learns about his companion is a new gift he's unwilling to let go of.

Still, he pretends not to give a damn over any of this even as Shiro allows him to tend to his broken arm.  He feels like a child all over again; stupid and awful and ready to snap at any opportunity to learn more about his father's kin.  He doesn't know if he should consider that a good thing or a bad thing, but it's something to keep him from losing his mind over the monotony of their current situation.

"You know," Keith tells him one evening, gently running his finger tips over Shiro's knuckles in a way that is purely scientific.  "You're the first human I've ever met."

Shiro, who has been quietly watching Keith the whole time, raises an eyebrow.  It seems that he, too, is a man of science. "Really?" he asks, "But— Your parents?"

Keith shakes his head at him, frowning. "My mother was galran," he responds, quietly.  "And I never met my father.  All I know... All Mom said was that we had to leave him for his own good.  That he wouldn't be safe with both of us around. I didn't think—"

"... Keith?" Shiro asks after he cuts himself off, fingers twitching under Keith's grasp.

"I didn't think," he repeats, pushing the words through his teeth like styrofoam.  "That I didn't look galra at _all_.  I don't know anything about my dad.  She never told me why, Shiro. No one wants to tell me why."

Shiro stills under Keith's grasp.  For a moment, he's afraid he's said too much.  He's frightened he's come off as pathetic, that Shiro won't want him around after this and that he'll ask him to leave.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he reaches over with his uninjured arm (a galran prosthesis, as Keith has learned) in order to place a hand on Keith's shoulder.  "I'm sorry," he says, so quietly and so softly that Keith swears he can feel his heart stutter inside his chest.  "... I never met my parents. My grandfather was the one who raised me — and now he's gone, too."

Keith stares up at him.  There's something of an epiphany happening here.  A realization that he trusts Shiro far too much, and that he wants to earn his respect more than anything he's ever wanted in his life before.  It's strange.  It's dangerous.  It should be downright horrifying, for all intents and purposes.

But it isn't.

Keith closes his eyes, leaning into Shiro's touch, and huffs out a humorless laugh. "I guess that's something else I have in common with you, Paladin," he mumbles,  "Thank you."

 

* * *

**viii — They're stuck in a restless haze when it happens.**

Crammed into the pilot's seat upon Shiro's insistence, Keith's eyes have long since begun to sting from how long it's been since he's gotten a full night's sleep. He's too anxious, too restless, too _desperate_ to get off this planet and back to the war to be able to sleep for more then three to four vargas at a time.  And while he's adjusted to the routine he's built up with Shiro, it does little to help him settle into new, acceptable sleep patterns.

Judging by the dark circles around Shiro's eyes, though, he supposes the feeling is mutual.

His head is resting against Shiro's bicep, the paladin's prosthetic arm digging into his side.  It's an uncomfortable position, but not one Keith is willing to shift out of at this time.  The rhythmic rise and fall of Shiro's chest is oddly comforting, for whatever reason, and it's with this that Keith keeps himself occupied.  He watches him breathe, his eyelids growing heavier by the dobosh — and he assumes this is some odd equivalent of _counting sotprad_ to fall asleep.  The only difference, he thinks, it's that counting imaginary creatures is not quite as intimate as watching his companion breathe in his sleep.

He's incredibly close to falling asleep when, without any prompting from either of them, the Black Lion's holographic displays activate themselves.  Bright purple lights sear into Keith's retinas, startling a yelp out of him and causing him to jostle Shiro in his sleep.  Shiro wakes up as he always does — tense and ready to go down swinging if necessary, but there's no need. There's nothing for them to fight, except for a questionably sentient lion.

Shiro lets out a shaky breath, his prosthetic arm suddenly wrapped around Keith's shoulders in a surprisingly protective gesture.  He opens his mouth, eyes darting back and forth as he examines their surroundings, and then—

_"—ŗ̵̛͜o̶͞!̕҉̧ ̶͘A̵̵̕r̸̡̛͡e̴̷ ̧͝y͝͏̵ ̴̨͟͠u͏̕͜͢͢ ̴̨̡͟͡t̛ ͟͠e҉̢̛͜r͜e̴͟҉?̸͝͡͏!̵͘͝ ̢̕C̴̨͢ ̕͏͏n̸ ̡ ͘͝͠y̢͜͟͟o̶u҉͢͠͡ ̷̴͝h͏̷͟͢e̷͘͝͠ ̢͠r͏̵ ҉͏m͡e̢͟͜?̢"_

A figure suddenly appears in one of the holographic displays.  They are barely anything more than an outline of themselves, the image blurry and fuzzy at the corners.  Their voice is distorted, syllables missing and intonation twisted beyond recognition.  Even so, there is enough left for Keith to make out the gist of what is being said.  

Someone is trying to contact Shiro.

Beside him, his companion shoots forward, ignoring his injuries in favor of working the lion's controls in order to transmit a message.  There's a slight trembling to his limbs as he moves, desperation doubtlessly gripping his heart at the possibility of successfully contacting one of his friends.  His gaze is brighter than Keith has ever seen it, and he is happy for Shiro.  He is, truly. But at the same time — well. It doesn't matter.

"Allura?" Shiro breathes out, voice thick with emotion.  "Do you copy me? I'm currently in the Drolon system. Are you all safe?"

Allura's silhouette shifts, a blur of pink and white getting closer to the camera, but not quite managing to get the image to focus.  " _S͞ ̵i͢r̛o͟,̵̸̨ i͏͏d͝ ͞e̴̢͠ h̵͜a͞ş̕ ̵͢l̢͜ ̸̢̨ck͞ ͘͟d̵ ̷d͏o̸w̛n ̧͘͡ur ҉c̵͢ ͝͞r̨̢͞d҉҉ina̕te҉s̶̡,̛͟͜_ ," they respond, unintelligibly. " _H͞ ͏̧we̵͘v̧e͟͟r̨,̸̷ w͝͠͏e'͞ e̵̴̕ ̕a͟͠ ͝͞s̢͏o͠ ̡͡i̢͘͜de͡͏͠n i̢f͏i̛ ҉d ͞a ̨҉gal̡̛r̛ ͘n̨ ҉ba͘͏ ̶͘͘c̢r̴̢̨ui̵s̡e͏r͜͞ ̵̢͡h͡ ̡a͟ ͏ing͘ ̸wa͟y̴̡̧!̸͘͟ P҉l̷̸̛e͡a̸se͟͡,̧͏ ҉P̶̡̛a ͏d͘i̴̕n,̶ ̧y͜͟͝o͡u̵ ͠m̸̕҉ ͡s̶t̸ ͞s̷t̴͢ay̕ ̴̵s҉̶a̡f̸̕e̡͠ ̧t̶͢͡il̶ ͞͡o̴ ̸ar̸ri͟ ҉̨l̵͡.̨ ̛҉ ̷͝T̨he̵̵̕ ̸͢t̨ ͠l͏͢ ͟d̷ ̡̡͠v ͝į̧̡s̴̡—͟_ "

Whatever Shiro's friend meant to say, they don't get to hear it.

A bright flash of light temporarily blinds them, right before an explosion rocks the Black Lion.

Keith finds himself suddenly knocked out of the pilot's chair, his body hitting the ground at the same time he hears Shiro hiss in pain. The familiar smell of ozone reaches his nose, the whole world going topsy-turvy as _something_ continues to impact the ship.

Belatedly, he realizes what Shiro's friend was trying to warn them about.

"Shiro!" he shouts, pulling himself from the ground and pointedly ignoring the sudden burst of pain in his ankle.  There will be time to worry about that later, but now now.  "The galra— They found us!"

Shiro's already dragging himself into the pilot's chair by the time Keith is able to reorient himself, his expression pinched with obvious pain.  He should not, by any means, be using his left arm to pilot his lion — but that's exactly what he does as he grips the controls with both hands.  The Black Lion roars to life almost immediately, rising from its previously inert position to move out of the way of the fire.  It's absolutely _breathtaking_ in its movements, and Keith grips the back of the pilot's seat with renewed strength as he watches Shiro manipulate the lion's controls with expert precision.

Still, even a Lion of Voltron cannot go toe to toe with the strength of a galran fleet.

They take more damage than they dish out.  Shiro's movements become sluggish the further the battle draws out, and while Keith doesn't doubt his skills as a pilot for a moment, he knows his injuries are taking a toll on him.  The left arm moves slower than his right.  His breathing is ragged.  Sweat has begun to collect on his forehead and the back of his neck.  At this rate, he will not outlast the hundreds upon hundreds of robotic pilots manning the fleet.

So Keith does what Keith does best, and makes a necessary choice without consultation.

_"—Keith?!"_

He slips into Shiro's lap before the other can push him away, wrapping his hands around the controls so they sit snugly below Shiro's own.  Suddenly, it feels like stars are bursting from beneath the palms of his hands.  Warmth spreads from his fingers, to his wrists, to the rest of his bodies — and he knows that this is not because of his current position.  He feels connected to both everything and nothing at all, something powerful and ancient settling into the notches of his spine.  It's a sensation, he thinks, that should be overwhelming.  An experience that should leave him thoroughly drained for days to come.

Somehow, it's not.

Shiro is a steady presence behind him.

"Trust me," he finds himself saying, his lips moving of their own accord.  Truth to be told, he has no idea what he's doing.  But something about this feels right.  Like this is exactly what he's meant to do and exactly where he's meant to _be._

He _feels_ more than he sees Shiro nod.

And then, they are off.

The Black Lion soars, spinning in pirouettes between the galran fighters.  The sky lights up all around them, explosions surrounding them as they dispatch combatant after combatant.  It's exhilarating and unlike anything Keith has ever experienced before.  He doesn't know how he lived before this moment, but now that he's had the opportunity to pilot one of Voltron's five lions — he knows he will never be able to return from this.  He knows that, no matter how fast or how powerful a ship he's able to commandeer after this, it will never measure up to this single moment of his life.

That is, assuming he will live to see tomorrow's sunrise.

Even with both of them behind the wheel, they are still outnumbered and overwhelmed.  For each fighter they successfully take out, five more rise to take their place.

But, fortunately, they are not alone.

A streak of red darts past them, taking out a row of fighters in one fell swoop.

"Attention, Drolon!" someone joyfully whoops over the Black Lion's communications system, the face of yet another human popping up on the holographic display. "The cavalry's he— _augh!"_

This moment would have been more poignant if not for the Red Lion suddenly crashing into a row of trees.

_Awful._

Keith doesn't have enough time to process this disgraceful display before more colorful streaks join the fray.  Green, Blue and Yellow lions descend upon the galran fleet, cutting down their numbers in a matter of ticks. Shiro sighs in relief behind him, his chin bumping against the top of Keith's head. " _Guys,_ " he exhales, as a chorus of voices happily shout his name over the comms system. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

From Keith's left, a holographic display appears.  Another human, with wide brown eyes and a white and green helmet over their head.  "Shiro!" they exclaim, their voice high and brimming with joy. "We're so happy you're—"

The cut themselves off at the same time their eyes towards the side, in _Keith's_ direction.  Maybe it's because they didn't expect to see someone sitting on their leader's lap.  Or, maybe it's because a fighter chose that moment to try and blast the Green Lion out of the sky, but whatever the case — their eyes grow even more impossibly large as their lion moves out of the way of the blast.  A moment later, the Yellow Lion is ramming into the galran ship and completely _obliterating_ it.

"Wait, wait, wait— Hold on," another human says, as yet _another_ display pops up before them.  This one wears a white and yellow over their head, their height and build similar to Shiro's. "Who's _that_?"

"—And why's he sitting on Shiro's lap?!" someone squawks, the face of the Red Lion's Paladin returning to the holographic display.  Keith is just about ready to tell all of them to shut up, but someone else beats him to the punch.

"Paladins!" a fourth person calls out, and Keith recognizes the pitch of their voice to be the same as _Allura's_.  "Now is not the time! We must focus on taking out this galran fleet immediately, before they are able to call for backup!"

"Thank you, Allura," Shiro breathes out, "I'll explain everything later, but for now— Let's get it together, Team! It's time to form _Voltron_!"

* * *

**ix — Keith thought flying the Black Lion would be the most magnificent moment of his life.**

He was horribly, terribly wrong.

(But _that_ is a story for another time.)

**Author's Note:**

> find me on: [tumblr](http://carcinology.tumblr.com/) • [twitter](https://twitter.com/beheads).


End file.
